


Shortarse

by MezzaMorta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John is a BAMF, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-28 19:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14456277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MezzaMorta/pseuds/MezzaMorta
Summary: With apologies to some readers of Best Days of Your Life, by way of reassuring them that John's canonical shortness (well, MF's) doesn't detract from his masculine hotness - it's a fundamental part of it, and if anything, just makes it better. I will endeavour to make this clearer when I write him again.See Quartet series for full stories.





	Shortarse

 John stared at the angry man through narrowed eyes, with calm, detached solicitude - which anyone who knew him would have instantly recognised as dangerous. 

"Sorry, say that again?"

"I said out of the way, shortarse."

Sherlock stepped in with deadly intent.

John quelled him with a look.  _Back off. Mine._

"Right. Just wanted to make sure I heard you right," John continued. "Because you bumped into me coming out of the Tube, yeah?"

"Didn't see you down there. Typical little bloke with a Napoleon complex, barging through," said the oily man in the suit.

"Mm. Probably, mate, yeah. Desperate to invade 19th century Spain, me." John began to walk away, shaking his head, smiling ironically. 

"Just because you're insecure in your masculinity doesn't mean you can push past me, you little wanker."

Sherlock's face was an unreadable mask of misleading neutrality. John inhaled through his teeth, like a builder assessing a dodgy roof. 

"Hmm," he turned back. "Didn't push you, though, did I? You weren't looking up, and there I was."

John heard a slight cough of discomfort at his left ear. "John, come away."

"No, not just yet, Myc, ta. Think I might stay for a chat."

The man snorted dismissively. "Out of my way, some of us have work to go to."

John blocked his exit, squaring his shoulders. "Don't think so, actually, mate. Think you're going to apologise to me for being rude. Because if you don't, it won't be Napoleon you'll be dealing with, it'll be Captain Watson, RMO, and he may be a shortarse, but he's not a small man, do you know what I'm saying?

"Whatever. Wouldn't be so tough without your boyfriends to bodyguard, would you?"

Sherlock could no longer stay silent. "Well, now it's a problem," he said, with interest.

Mycroft sighed, resignedly. "Oh, dear, they just never see the danger in time, do they?"

John laughed. "OK, mate, you're getting the speech now. Don't blame me, you've brought it on yourself." He literally backed the man into a corner away from the public thoroughfare simply by walking towards him, without needing to lay so much as a finger on him.

"Oh, what, are you going to beat me up?" said the man, sarcastically, though looking a little worried. 

"No," said Sherlock, puzzled, "He just said, it's much worse than that. You're getting the speech."

And, truth to tell, he was.

John grinned, gearing himself up. 

"Did you want me to beat you up? Do you like it? I won't, as it goes, because I don't actually need to assert my 'manliness' through aggression. Don't get me wrong, I've got a temper on me. But it's a long fuse. Takes a lot to get me there, but when I do, I go off. Get it from me Mum.

As for masculinity, not sure what you mean by it, mate. But if you must know - I'm a life-saving doctor with a British Army record, a crackshot war vet who fought off PTSD, and I'm a bloody handy rugby scrum-half, which you can't be if you're a six footer. I'm a genius's best chance at humanity, a Detective Inspector's best-ever fuck - count yourself lucky he's not here, by the way, he doesn't enjoy scenes as much as these two - and the British Government goes weak at the knees whenever I lounge round in me vest and pants. Actually, regardless of clothing. I give it up the arse, I take it up the arse, I've got three blokes on the go, and I bloody love it. Oh, and I've never met a man taller than me that I couldn't break, so if you're implying my height is a problem for me, I assure you, it ain't. If it's a problem for you, that's different. But I don't need your good opinion, now, do I? And another thing about being five foot seven - if that's even particularly short - is that people underestimate you, which suits me just fine."

The man looked extremely uncomfortable, and seemed about to speak but John cut him off and he stood rooted to the spot, fixed by John's sheer force of will. He was well into his stride, alive with confident articulacy and confrontational delight. Sherlock smirked, enjoying himself, while Mycroft tried to look like he wasn't.

John held up his hands.

"Now, I'm prepared to admit I'm scared of a lot of things it's sensible to be scared of, because I've seen them up close - death, for example. Injury. Loss of freedom. Loneliness. Despair. Pain. But I'm not scared of words, or blokes who think they're calling me offensive names in the street. You aren't, by the way. Because I'm not scared of my own height, not scared of being shorter than these idiots - both of them will beg at my feet if I want them to. And, not that it's your business, but just so you know, my cock's not little or small or short, it's more than a nice thick handful, ta, and does the job pretty bloody well, if I do say so myself. They say so. But even if none of those things were true and I was twice as small heightwise, I'd still be a man and they'd still lose their minds over me, cos I'm a good 'un, me. Handsome face, and a stocky, tight body, so they tell me. 

As for shortarse, my boyfriend - one of them, this tall streak here - calls me that and I love it. Because it's a tease, a joke between us. Term of endearment. I call them lanky, gangly, ungainly bastards, tossers, wankers, idiots, poshos. Because we're British and we're like that. My other one calls me his 'little' something sometimes,  because it's silly, it's sweet, and the way it's meant is understood between us. Lovers' prerogative. We like to play around with everything - power, identities, roles, assumptions. Height difference makes for an interesting fuck, did you know? Variety is the spice. Turns them on like mad.

So, yeah. That's me, mate. I'm good with being a shortarse. Not a value judgement, is it? I'm a bit shorter than average - just a fact. I'm good with fact, and I'm good with myself."

The man tried to leave, and John nearly let him, but he wasn't finished.

"So we've established I can take a personal joke, especially from the blokes I'm shagging on the regular. Especially from these ones, cos they're special. I can handle small and little. We throw that word around all the time, don't we? 'You little beauty', meaning any bloke of any height who scores a try. 'Go out for a little drink', meaning twelve pints. 'Take a little while', meaning three weeks. 'Proper little madam', meaning total slag. 'Silly little boy', meaning grown man having a tantrum - we've got one of those. Not necessarily literal, is it? Littleness is all character and context. You might associate it with negatives - 'pathetic little, sad little, weak little' - like it's only a diminishing thing. Don't make the mistake of thinking it has the same meaning when context changes, is all I'm saying. The biggest little git I know is well over six foot. We do still have irony in this country, you know. 

Little doesn't mean lesser, anymore than big means better, and the reason you know that is because there are separate words for those things. 

If you mean to  _belittle_ me, that's different. If you mean to make me out to be a small man in character, that's different. Small men come in all sizes, don't know if you've noticed. I'm neither a big man nor a small man. I am an above-average one though.

I'm just John. I'm five foot seven, I'm a total little sweetheart with an occasionally rotten temper and depressive tendencies. I'm a fantastic lay, a great Dad, a good cook, and a kind, funny bloke with a low centre of gravity and a decent bench-press - and if you call out to me in the street again because you're hoping to start something, or you're wanting to let off some steam, or you just think it's time to be a rude arsehole, I'll be the one resetting your collar bone when one of these big idiots goes all masculine and breaks it. The British Government would delete your NHS records, the Met would turn a blind eye, and a madman in a flapping coat would come back to break the rest. Unless I asked him not to. OK?"

Turning on his heel, the shortarse Captain marched away, smiling and satisfied, while his two lanky sidekicks strode to keep up with him, leaving the small, irrelevant little man gaping and blinking behind them. 


End file.
